


In the Darkness With You

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Minor Violence, Prompt Fill, pre-rated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 18,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: A collection of Jaime x Brienne ficlets set in theA Song of Ice and Firecanon.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 446
Kudos: 298





	1. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: garden
> 
> For: [tuliptoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuliptoes)

She finds him in the garden often.

Hidden away amongst the ivy on a stone bench, he'll be cleaning his sword but staring blankly out toward the horizon. Sometimes he'll meet her eye when she approaches from the narrow path their feet have created. Lately he may even smile a little. But most often, he'll hardly seem to register her presence.

She will sit with him anyway, letting her own mind wander in the freedom of the open space. Birds of all sizes and colors sing sweet melodies and the scent of pine sap fills her nose. Spring is in full swing and healing is in bloom.

They are two soldiers without a war. The battles left to them are waged only against their own memories.

Brienne knows that Jaime thinks of the family he's lost. He doesn't have to say it. She feels it for him. She hears Myrcella's name on the warm breeze as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud. She sees Tommen in the tatty old cat that follows Jaime’s every move across the grounds.

Brienne does not know that kind of loss. She prays she never will. But she has her own ghosts to contend with. When the phantom of Lady Catelyn threatens to make her choose, Jaime is there now. He can always pull himself away from his battlefield to save Brienne from her own.

In the garden they save one another from enemies felt but unseen. She supposes that in that way their relationship has not changed. So when she finds him, distant and alone, she'll take his hand and press her lips to it. Usually he'll only smile sadly and pull her to him, but at least they are together. And she will hope that by the end of the long spring, they'll find more reasons to smile.


	2. You Can Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You can try."
> 
> For: anon

“Very careful now, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hmph! You can try."

Jaime leaned on his elbows, watching from the balcony of the Evenstar’s chambers with an amused smile. How often had they spoken those words to one another over the years? Whether sparring in the courtyard or quarreling over who might take the last apple cake after dinner. It pleased him to hear her favorite challenge turned back on her.

The things children learned from their parents.

Little Duncan was barely beyond toddling. His white-blonde hair fell in soft, downy curls past his shoulders and his little pink lips were pursed in a ferocious pout. He was turned to the side in a proper offensive stance, his wooden sword held at the high ready and his shield--painted with the House sigil of the Lannisters of Tarth--tucked close to his body. Standing across from Brienne, he barely stood as tall as his mother’s knees. But the lad more than made up for it in spirit and determination.

 _Stubborn_ , Jaime mused.

Brienne seemed to be taking the bout very seriously herself. She kept her eyes trained on Duncan as she dropped slowly down to her knees in the dirty straw. The little wooden sword, a twin of Duncan’s own, was comically small in her large, capable hands. But she held it before her like she faced a dragon.

“Mother, _no_ ,” their son protested firmly. “It won’t be _fair_!"

Jaime chuckled. Stubborn and able to spot an unequal fight when he saw one. Perhaps their parenting wasn’t as much the disaster they sometimes feared. He and Brienne had not meant to make a babe, had never viewed themselves as parents. Duncan had been forged in the darkness of battle but born into fragile new light. A sign of rebirth and life restored, the wildlings and crannogmen and mountain clansmen had all agreed. To Jaime and Brienne, the squalling pink babe had been a new fear to tackle together. It had seemed fitting to Jaime, even then, that they might circle around from facing the fear of death together to creating new life.

" _TAAARRTTHHH_!" Duncan shouted in his four-year-old's soprano as he charged at Brienne, blue eyes fierce and focused. The boy prattled constantly about knighthood and looking at him now, Jaime felt a tender sort of pride. He would surely make a good one.

Brienne parried Duncan's attack with a barely suppressed smile. Jaime, unseen from above them, was free to grin as widely as he chose. And few things made him grin quite as much as watching his lady wife with their children. First Duncan and then, eight moons earlier as spring had slipped into summer, Briony. Brienne was everything with their family that Cersei never had been. Warm and encouraging, playful and kind. The difference in what his life had been and what it was now was almost jarring at times. He ached with how much he loved to watch moments like the one before him.

Brienne kept the game going for a while, wearing Duncan out until he was huffing and puffing and his cheeks were a shade of maroon to match his mother's. She was always good at that, knowing when to stop. Duncan gave one last tired blow toward Brienne's wooden sword. She ducked beneath it and, leaning forward, caught their son around the waist, pulling his little body into her own.

Both of them laughing, Jaime's wife and child fell back into the straw and grass. Duncan giggled breathlessly and Jaime whistled his congratulations.

"Father!" Duncan shrieked from atop Brienne's lap. "I beat her! I beat the Blue Knight!" He giggled again as Brienne tickled his ribcage, smiling broadly up at Jaime as she did.

He waved his hand down at them, pride blazing in his heart. Behind him through the open terrace door, Briony babbled the language of content babes. Jaime didn't think he could be much happier than he felt in that moment. But, he thought as he went to scoop up their daughter and join them in the courtyard, he could try.


	3. Hands Holding Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "He was going to hold her hand, one of these days."
> 
> For: [theworldunseen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldunseen/pseuds/theworldunseen)

He was going to hold her hand one of these days.

It was a foolish thought. He was thirty-four years old. Had been with a woman more times than he could count for nearly as long as he could remember. Other women had been throwing themselves at his feet since before he knew what it was a woman could do. The Lion of Lannister, the Kingslayer, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. A man who had made kings and unmade them.

And yet he could not bring himself to catch a woman’s hand.

Jaime had not forgotten how she had kept the two of them alive during their first journey through the Riverlands. She’d been so stupidly stubborn about it, following after him every time he’d stumble off for a piss as though she’d been appointed his nursemaid. As though her dogged care for him had not endangered their very lives. _As though_ his life had been worth the risk.

Stupid.

And yet he’d returned the favor on their second trip through the Riverlands, forcing her to eat when all she wanted to do was curl into a ridiculous, giant ball and weep. On one occasion he’d even had to pull her into his lap and let her wail. She had soaked his breeches with her tears and Jaime had allowed his hand to rest on her shoulder, unsure of what to do. Unsure of how to comfort her or the safest way to touch her.

There had always been something tender lurking beneath her steely exterior; he had sniffed that out from the moment he had met her. But he hadn’t been prepared for the revelation of the thing. He supposed that had been when he had first realized that perhaps he wanted to hold her hand. The thing was as big as a dinner plate and just as porcelain white, but when she’d fisted it into his tunic as she had sobbed, Jaime had been inexplicably enamored with the idea of covering it with his own.

But before he could dwell on the revelation for very long, they were riding toward the Vale in search of Sansa Stark and she’d been avoiding him. She slept under her own pavilion and would stare quietly into the fire as they shared their meager suppers. The whole ordeal was driving him to distraction. That such an overgrown woman-child could so easily put him off his day was utter madness.

“Brienne,” he finally said one evening, her name bursting from his lips with an exasperation he had not intended to convey.

She lifted her eyes toward him across the light of their campfire, guilt swimming in their blue depths. “Ser Jaime,” she replied softly.

He sighed and scrubbed his hand across his beard. She still blamed herself and Jaime had still not found the words to convince her that she had done no wrong by him--that her devotion to her companions, to the lives of innocents above all else, was to be admired. He could not just _say_ that to her, but her continued self-flagellation was wearing on Jaime’s nerves.

With a deep breath, he stood from his bedroll and came to sit on hers. She jerked away from him with such haste that he might have thought her burned. Her eyes were wide, giving her the appearance of a cornered animal. Jaime thought for a moment on what to say to her. But instead of speaking, he just sat cross-legged and craned his neck up toward the snowy peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Without looking at her, he let his hand fall toward her, inching closer until he found her calloused palm. Her fingers twitched but she did not move her hand from his as he traced the lines of her hand.

Warmth bloomed in Jaime’s chest so brightly in the cold night that he had no choice but to turn his head toward her. She seemed frozen in place, so he nudged her shoulder with his to break the ice and slid his fingers a little higher, running them deliberately along the lengths of her own.

He still did not know the proper words for whatever silly, fluttering feeling it was that Brienne of Tarth so often made him feel. Perhaps _one day_ he could figure that out, too. But for now, in the shadows of the mountains, he would simply relish the feeling of her fingers curling around his, locking them together as they watched the snow drift from the starry heavens to melt into the firelight.


	4. A Mother's Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: a fic exploring Brienne's relationship with her daughters (i.e. how how her life as affected how she parents; how becoming a parent has changed the way she regards her past, herself, and her ethics)
> 
> For: anon

Brienne’s daughter lifted her chin defiantly. A tall, strong, beautiful girl with a piercing glare that had fallen directly from the Lannister family tree. Had Brienne not become accustomed to the look long before the girl had been born, she might have been intimidated.

"You don't understand," the golden-haired girl said. "You and Father give me these swords and these lessons, but--" she shook her head, blue eyes going misty.

Brienne frowned and settled into the empty space on the armory bench beside her. She wanted to reach for her daughter, to pull her into her breast as though the girl were still small enough to only need her mother’s embrace for comfort. But Brienne knew from experience that attempting to show affection when she was upset would only make the situation worse, so she folded her hands in her lap.

"You’ve not told me how you feel. Perhaps you could start there."

"I hate the sword," she pouted.

Brienne lifted her brow. "Ser Podrick says you're good with the sword. We thought you enjoyed your lessons."

" _No_ ," the girl said vehemently. "I hate it. I _hate_ it. Just because you all think it's something I'm good at doesn't mean I _want_ to do it."

Brienne's heart squeezed tightly in her chest. It was a sentiment she understood on some deep, unexplainable level. As a girl, she had never had anyone to believe in her about anything. In truth, it had not been until she had met Jaime Lannister that anyone had paid any mind at all to who she truly was or what she truly wanted. All these years later, the thought of it still dazzled her.

They had wanted the same for their children; a better childhood than either of them had known. Jaime had put a sword in their daughter’s hand and positively glowed with pride when the girl had shown skill with it. Brienne hoped he would take the change of heart well. Their middle son’s awkward bookishness had not fazed him in the least, after all. Jaime had been glad to ensure the lad never wanted for reading material. Brienne felt confident that her husband would take this in stride, too.

“Are you cross with me?” said a small, nervous voice wholly unlike any Lannister that Brienne had ever met. Her daughter spoke with a voice from Brienne’s past, perhaps; the voice of her own fears--fears of her septa’s wrath and fears of her father’s disappointment.

At once, Brienne wanted to weep, both for the girl in front of her and the girl she had once been. But she fought against it and instead reached out to cup her daughter’s cheek in her hand, giving into the instinct that maybe just the once, she might still need her mother. The girl leaned into her touch and Brienne wiped away an escaped tear with the pad of her thumb. She had never felt so much love for another person before. Sometimes it shocked her how much she could feel for her children.

“I could never be cross with you for being who you want to be. I _will_ never be cross with you for that.” She pulled her close then, one arm across her back and her free hand running through waves golden hair. “Whether it’s swordplay or needlework, singing or sailing. I will love you always, whatever you decide to be.”

Her daughter choked out a half-laughing sob. Brienne could feel her smile in the way her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Mother,” she whispered softly. “I’m sorry I can’t be like you.”

Brienne pulled away, her hand going back to the girl’s chin. “You _are_ like me, my darling. More than you know.”


	5. Getting back together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: hurt/comfort with getting back together
> 
> For: [dame_lazarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dame_Lazarus/pseuds/Dame_Lazarus)

Jaime hasn't seen Brienne since they had gone their separate ways at the Vale. They had decided then that she would go directly north to Winterfell and Jaime would strike out for King's Landing. He could hardly stand the thought of sending her alone. When the thought of it crossed his mind, the fingers of his remaining hand would twitch, longing to touch the fresh pink scar where her cheek once had been. As though his touch could ever be useful for anything.

He wishes even now that he could take back how foolish he had been to send her out alone. But still he does not know who could have gone with her. He was sending one presumed kingslayer to find another presumed kingslayer. Jaime knew better than most what a person who could kill their king looked like, and neither Brienne of Tarth nor Sansa Stark fit that description.

Still, he hated to send her north alone with just the girl. She'd insisted she had to and Jaime could not in good conscience leave Tommen in his sister's clutches any longer. He'd been at a complete loss when she'd visited his chambers in the night trying to return Oathkeeper.

"I've found Sansa Stark," she had said from the middle of his room, dimly lit from the light in the corridor. Her eyes fluttered down to where she gripped Oathkeeper in one hand. "The Lannister heir should carry the Lannister sword."

Jaime thought about that phrase from where he sat, straight-spined and indecently naked from the waist up. _The Lannister heir_. It should have surprised him that the face that swam into view was not quite his own, but some face similar to his own with astonishing blue eyes. He’d behaved selfishly then. Or he had at least thought himself selfish until Brienne had proven at first soft and yielding in his arms, then insistent and urgent as the night wore on.

In the morning, she had been gone and Oathkeeper hung innocently on his bedpost.

Three moons passed before he found her in the North again, swinging some gray sword that looked nothing near as good in her hands as Jaime’s had. He let her alone the first day--as much as the brief, vague light that briefly lightened the black of the horizon to a deep purple could be called “day”--but resolved that after the second he would go to her.

Go to her he had, but he would have preferred not to be sitting at her sick bed.

“You’re awake,” he says dryly as her eyes flutter open. He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there waiting, but when he leans slightly toward her, his back is stiff and sore.

Brienne’s eyes slide toward him and she tries to scowl but only manages to wince. “What are you doing here?” Her voice is hoarse and she coughs a little.

Jaime fills a cup with water from the pitcher at her bedside. She takes it from him and leans her head up to take a sip. He cocks his head and watches her for a moment.

“I’d thought that was fairly obvious.”

She meets his eyes and Jaime can’t understand why there’s anger there. “It isn’t.”

“You left this.” He stands and removes the swordbelt, tossing Oathkeeper onto her bed.

“It’s for the Lannister--”

“--heir, I know.”

“You _are_ the Lannister heir.”

“Why did you leave?” he blurts.

She drops her gaze then, picking at the golden hilt of the sword lying beside her. “You had responsibilities elsewhere and I--” She clears her throat and casts around like she wants to look at him again but can’t quite bring herself to do it. “It was foolish. It doesn’t bear repeating.” There seems to be an implied _if that's what you want_ in her tone. And it isn't what he wants at all.

Jaime hums. He intakes a sharp breath and on the exhale he says levelly, “I was going to ask you to marry me. The next morning.”

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything at all. She just stares at him, lips slightly parted.

“That way you could keep the sword and then when you decided you were done with it, you could give it to the Lannister heir. Preferably some giantess of a daughter.”

She shakes her head and looks away. “Why are you saying these things?”

“Is it not what you want?” He touches a hand gently to her shoulder, mindful of any injuries. “Brienne, if I have misread our situation, tell me now.”

A silence stretches out between them for so long that Jaime begins to grow irritated and almost stands to leave. But her face is pained and frustrated, so instead the moment takes root in his heart and only begins to bloom when she reaches up to cover his hand with her own.

“Jaime,” she says quietly, his name in her mouth like a song, “the only thing you’ve misread is who that sword belongs to.”

She nudges the sword back toward him with her toe, smiles up at him, and in that moment Jaime could not feel more victorious if they had conquered the Long Night then and there.


	6. Hold him (MCD)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime gets an untimely death in Brienne's pov. She can either be there or not, I'll let you choose.
> 
> For: [weboury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weboury)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> So sorry about this (I'm not).

Jaime didn't scream. He just stared in wide-eyed shock. Stared directly at her. Someone _did_ scream, and Brienne barely registered that it was her own voice calling out his name. He had left her side, the stupid, _stupid_ man. He was only supposed to have been gone for a moment--just long enough to redirect his troops. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This wasn’t _supposed_ to happen.

Brienne kicked away an approaching wight, drove her sword into it, and ran toward him. Her feet slipped and slid in the muddy ice. Swirling gusts of snow blew into her eyes, stinging them until they watered. Ice clung to her lashes and the exposed skin of her face was chapped and raw from the constant, howling wind.

By the time she reached him, Jaime had already sunk to the ground. Against the piles of stark white snow, Jaime’s blood was as crimson as his cloak. The wights were advancing, moving on toward the castle. Lannister men-- _Jaime’s men_ \--stood ready at the gates, in just the position he’d told her they should be in before he’d strode off.

None of it mattered to her. The countless hours spent strategizing. The ache of her body from practice and battle. The pangs of hunger. So much time, energy, and resources--everything Brienne had in her--had been allocated to this battle, to this very moment. Everything was in place. But with Jaime’s blood soaking into her layers of wool and leather, suddenly none of it mattered.

“Jaime,” she croaked, wrapping her arms beneath his and pulling him toward her and out of the snow. There was so much she wanted to say, _needed_ to tell him, but only his name came to mind. Over and over. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_.

His face was rapidly going pale, vibrant green eyes dimming. His mouth moved wordlessly for several seconds before he finally managed to make a sound. “Hold him,” he said to her, urgent.

Brienne shook her head, wondering where her tears were. Shouldn’t she be crying? “Jaime,” she said again. “I don’t understand. Jaime, I--”

With some difficulty, he brought his left hand up to rest feebly upon her abdomen. She tracked the progress of his hand with her eyes, confused. She knew too well that the dying often spoke nonsense. But this was something else. She could _feel_ that it was something else.

“Brienne,” he whispered. His eyes slid into focus once more and his voice leveled out even as the last of his color seemed to fade into the snow. “Hold him for me.”

She had no way to track how long she sat there with him in her arms. If she had been capable of processing a single thought outside of the little bubble in which she cradled Jaime against her, she might have heard the sounds of battle raging just a few feet away. She might have seen a small figure approaching from the throng.

“Gods,” said Tyrion Lannister on a barely suppressed sob. “Gods, Jaime.”

Brienne didn’t move her gaze away from the place where Jaime’s motionless hand pressed against the thick layers of leather protecting her abdomen. She felt Tyrion wrap his hand around her wrist where it clung to Jaime’s shoulder. He could be sleeping with the way his head tucked into her breast. Tyrion seemed to want to move her hand, but she held firm.

"I was going to tell him,” she said in a faint voice that surely could not be her own. “I’m--he didn't know--"

_Where were the tears?_

"He knew." Tyrion's grip was just as surprisingly strong as his tone. " _Brienne_."

She tore her gaze away from Jaime's body to look up at Tyrion. She'd never viewed the youngest Lannister from this angle. She could see a painfully familiar fierceness in his mismatched eyes. _Protectiveness_. A lion concerned for the wellbeing of one of his pack.

"Brienne, he knew," he said softly. Tyrion let go of her wrist and reached out a hesitant hand to squeeze her shoulder. It was the most affection she had ever received from Tyrion. "But you can't stay on the ground with him. There will be more soon. You have to fight. You have to live." He broke his intense stare to bring his eyes down to her abdomen. "Both of you."

Brienne nodded and glanced down at Jaime’s perfect golden curls one last time. She understood. She would not die there in the snow beside him.

"I'll hold him, Jaime," she said before she rising to her feet. She pressed a cold, lingering kiss to his forehead. "And I'll speak the truth to him. I'll tell him how you saved us. I'll tell him you were good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take all complaints to weboury, thank you.
> 
> I at least promise the next one will be happy!


	7. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime and Brienne share a sunrise together
> 
> For: anon

Brienne was standing atop her favorite place on Tarth when the sun began to peek over the inky blue edge of the sea. Tarth’s great boulder-by-the-sea had been smoothed on all sides and was wide enough to fit an entire house on its flat surface. A scene carved into one side of the rock depicted a battle between giants and Children of the Forest; few scenes like it existed anywhere else in Westeros. The rock had withstood the insurgence of the Golden Company, countless civil wars, the dragonfire of Aegon the First and his descendents, the invasion of the Andals, and on and on until time lost all meaning. It was well-known across Tarth as the site of coronations of kings long-dead, some mystical place imbued with an energy Brienne had never been able to describe to anyone not from the island. And now it was … hers. Hers to protect, hers to keep watch over. It was a duty she took especially seriously.

Over the sound of softly crashing waves, she heard the shuffling of someone climbing up to meet her on the rock. She didn’t have to turn to see who it was; their tradition was a longstanding one.

She didn’t turn away from the cool sea breeze as Jaime’s hand slid slowly across the just of her hip, his fingers lifting the hem of her tunic just enough to graze the skin of her belly. When he pulled her against him, nuzzling the crook of her neck, she could feel the cold plate of his armor against her back. She smiled to herself and leaned her head away from his to allow him better access.

“You didn’t even change,” she said as he brushed his lips over the skin of her shoulder.

“I needed you to help me,” he murmured.

Brienne chuckled and pulled his short arm around her, wrapping her fingers lightly around his stump. Even in the cold metal of his armor and an inch shorter than her, Jaime was big enough to shield her from the wind. His body wrapped around her own enough to warm her from the inside out. She had missed him while he had been away.

They stood and watched the sun climb up over the horizon. Jaime’s chin rested on Brienne’s shoulder, his silver mane trailing down her arm. He looked more and more like the grizzled old war veteran he was and less like the golden Lion of Lannister with each passing year. Brienne liked him like this, even if she teased him about it. She had long ago peeled away the armor around his heart to reveal a tired soul full of more love than he knew what to do with. But now that man--that soul--was on display for the world to see. Jaime Lannister, the silver lion of Tarth.

She turned in his arms to face him. An array of warm colors shone on his face. Under the rising sun he looked as golden as the day the Long Night had truly ended and daylight had shone upon their love for the first time. Jaime’s eyes were fixed upon her, that same wide-eyed look of wonder that Brienne hoped she never tired of. His hand trailed up her back and found her chin, tilting her face toward him just so.

“I’ve missed you,” he said in a low rumble.

“Jaime, you’ve only been away a sennight.”

“That’s seven sunrises without you, wench.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile and pressed her forehead to his. “I’m glad you’re home, you romantic fool.”

Jaime was still grinning when he kissed her, slow and sweet, his hand at the nape of her neck. It was the deliberate sort of kiss their marriage had been founded upon decades earlier, as spiritual and grounded as the boulder-by-the-sea. The rock had seen Brienne’s coronation as Evenstar. It had been the place where their hands had been bound and she had promised to be his while he had sworn to be hers. She was fairly certain that their second child had been conceived there above the salty sea spray.

The rock knew all of their secrets, had been a constant throughout their marriage and throughout time. But after so long in the darkness, it was still the sunrises with Jaime, wherever they were, that she loved the best.


	8. The Vale Melee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime trains Hyle 
> 
> For: anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really follow this one to the letter. But here is _something_ , anyway.

“I don’t trust him.”

Jaime’s eyes followed Brienne as she settled onto the fallen log next to him. She winced slightly less today than she had yesterday, but still she refused to let him fetch a maester. “Ser Cunt?”

“That becomes less funny the more often you say it.”

“I can’t say that I know what you mean, but,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I don’t trust him either.”

Brienne met his gaze long enough to glower at him before she set herself to unraveling the bandage on her damaged arm. He tried not to watch too carefully; the last time he’d seen the mangled mess that had once been one of the best sword-wielding arms he’d ever come across, it had made him blind with fury. Whether he was angry with Brienne herself or the with the men who’d done that to her--or perhaps even with himself--he was not sure. He only knew he couldn’t stand the sight of it, and she was as likely to let him help with the bandages as bloody “Ser Gendry” was to stop sulking or this Hunt bastard was to stop being _such a fucking cunt_. So Jaime stood and busied himself with tending to the fire.

“No,” Brienne said from behind him. She hissed sharply and he didn’t need to look to see that she was redressing her wounds. “Lord Baelish.”

Jaime spun around at that, clutching a charred wooden stick in his hand. “Littlefinger? He’s always done well by the crown.”

Brienne took a moment to respond. She was too busy biting her lip and guiding her arm back into the sling she wore. “The way he looks at her. I don’t care for it.”

Jaime straightened and took a step toward her. “What do you mean?”

He had not actually been up to the castle to see for himself what the situation might be. The previous day, Brienne had made the journey up with the exceptionally plain hedge knight who followed her everywhere. They’d all told Jaime that his presence would be less than welcome.

“I just...” She seemed to want to look as far away from him as she could, her head turned across her shoulder. “Get a feeling.”

Jaime kept his expression neutral. He’d had plenty such _feelings_ at court, although it had likely been years since he’d acted on any of them. Not since Queen Rhaella. Since Aerys.

He had thought of Littlefinger as decent enough for the sort of viper’s nest King’s Landing had been. He seemed to treat the women he employed well and even appeared to have kept Robert’s worst financial indulgences from bankrupting the entire kingdom. But he didn’t know much about the man himself, if truth be told. Jaime had spent most of his time at court the last fifteen years thinking of little more than his sister’s skirts. A safe place to hide. The thought now almost made him laugh out loud.

Almost.

Brienne was watching him with a careful, guarded expression. Like she expected him to laugh because he thought her concerns ridiculous. In truth, he probably trusted her opinion more than anyone else’s.

He wouldn’t just tell her that, of course, so instead he asked what she thought they should do.

“There’s to be a tourney, and the winner--” she began.

“Neither of us is fit to enter,” he interjected swiftly, glaring once more at her broken arm.

“I _know_ that, if you’ll _listen_.” She shot him a hesitant glance. “Ser Hyle. He enters and if he wins, it would put him at Sansa’s side. It’s the closest we’re going to be able to get to her.”

“If your goal is to lose the tourney, I suppose we could send Hunt.” Jaime’s tone was lofty, but he meant what he said. From what he had seen of the man’s skill with a sword, it certainly left quite a lot to be desired.

“Yes, well, that’s what I’ve needed to talk to you about.” She dropped her eyes completely. “You should train him. He could be at least half as good as you with the right instructor.”

Jaime snorted. “Another ringing endorsement of Jaime Lannister from Brienne of Tarth.”

“Please be serious.” She scowled. “We have to get her out of there.”

“I haven’t said no, wench.” The thought of knocking Hunt to the ground over and over in the name of “training” amused him for reasons he could not quite put a finger on. And the thought of the young girl he’d met at Winterfell, now his good-sister, in the clutches of a man with ill intentions made Jaime’s stomach churn.

“I’ll do it. But not for Ser Cunt, and not for you.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “For Sansa Stark.”

Brienne nodded. “For Sansa.”

He did not lie, although his agreement was, of course, in no small part for Brienne and the annoying little scowl of hers that he liked so well.

Jaime spied the cunt in question approaching from the treeline over Brienne’s shoulder and grinned. His time exiled from their party, tucked away from view outside the Bloody Gate, would at least soon be a lot more enjoyable.


	9. Forehead Kiss in a Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: forehead kisses in a cabin for no reason
> 
> For: ulmo80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a followup to my fic [All My Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060546) but it doesn't _really_ have to be read that way, I don't think.

On the first anniversary of their marriage, they invite their children to visit and they both are surprised when two of the three agree. Jaime's first question for his son asks after the gardens at Casterly Rock.

"As green as ever," the Lord of Casterly Rock informs him with a laugh and roll of his eyes. When Jaime scowls, the younger man clears his throat. "No worries, Father, I swear it. Your legacy lives on."

Jaime nods seriously before continuing his line of inquiry about the people of the Westerlands, the mines, Tybolt's wife and children, and the Rock's plans for autumn harvest.

Brienne and Alysanne share cups of warm cider in the tiny little kitchen at the edge of the sitting room as the two men converse. Alysanne smiles much more easily than Brienne ever had at her age, chuckling to herself as father and son bicker good-naturedly.

"I'm glad you came," Brienne says softly, as though the spell of heroines she's under might break if she speaks too loudly. "We were worried you wouldn't."

Alysanne's smile turns rueful. "I wouldn't have missed it, and it seems as though Lord Lannister feels the same." She hesitates, not quite meeting Brienne's eye. "I'm sorry Duncan couldn't come along. You know how stubborn he can be, but I'm sure he'll come around."

Her only son's apparent rejection of her marriage, of her new life, stung but had not been wholly unexpected. She thought she could understand, though. Duncan is the spitting image of his Estermont father but his stubbornness he received from his mother.

Brienne chooses to smile. "I'm happy your brother is doing well, nevertheless. Sons are difficult and I'm sure he has his hands full."

"Yes, well," Alysanne says with a sigh, "Lord Lannister didn't seem to have difficulty leaving _his_ duties for a few days."

It still feels odd to Brienne to hear someone other than Jaime referred to as the Lord of Casterly Rock, even when it has now been a full year since they'd stolen off into the night with the septon's blessing still ringing in their ears. Looking at Jaime now, she still cannot believe that they are truly there together after so many years apart. He is as happy as she's ever seen him, talking with his son in the quiet comfort of their little home. She and Jaime had both feared they might never see their respective children again. And Brienne could have hardly blamed them. They'd married in the night, left instructions and goodbyes for their heirs in writing, and disappeared. Alysanne and Tybolt are gifts.

After dinner is devoured--meaty pies from the baker a few houses down--Brienne stands in subdued conversation with Alysanne yet again.

"I'm glad you're happy, Mother," her daughter says, placing one large freckled hand on Brienne's own. "After everything you sacrificed, you deserve this. Tarth marches on just fine."

Before she can answer, she feels Jaime's hand and stump on her waist, his chin on her shoulder.

"Did she tell you about the time I saved her from a bear?"

Alysanne smiles a genuine smile. "So often, Ser Jaime."

"Were you raised having to constantly hear the story about the bear, too?" Tybolt laughs as strides over to join them.

Brienne doesn't hear the rest of the conversation as their children bond over stories of the life their parents had lived before going their separate ways. Brienne turns in Jaime's arms, taking in his lined and silver appearance. Life without him had been a challenge, she thinks, but the gods had been kind to bring them back together.

She leans forward and places a kiss on his forehead. "I love you," she whispers, just for him.

His grip on her waist tightens and he closes his eyes. Brienne's life is haunted, and Jaime's ghosts are even more numerous, but they had learned how to fight them long ago. "And I love you."


	10. Married. (Canon Divergence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: No one knows Brienne was Catelyn's sworn sword, so Jaime tells everyone in Kings Landing that she's _just_ his wife.
> 
> For: [lewispanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lewispanda/pseuds/lewispanda)

"Arrested?" Jaime said before Ser Loras could finish laying out his grievances against Brienne. "I think not."

The Tyrell boy's brow sank. "Either she's arrested or she draws her sword and I kill her here and now." His fingertips danced across the pommel of his sword.

"I'm afraid you'll find there does exist a third option and _if you don't take your hand away from that sword you'll be short one soon, too._ " Jaime stepped forward, just enough to loom over Ser Loras. He conjured up his most murderous expression, ignoring the fact that he was little more than skin and bones and with no way to fight the boy if he called Jaime's bluff.

"Shall we have her thrown into the black cells, m'lord?" asked one of the Gold Cloaks at his side with a dark, disgusting grin.

Jaime didn't need to look at her to know the wench was ready to cross swords with every single city watchman and Ser Loras. She'd die fighting them without a second thought. To have her locked away was one thing--at least it might placate the hotheaded knight of flowers. But the black cells?

"Touch my wife, and I'll make each of your own widows." Jaime's eyes roved over each individual Gold Cloak with intent.

" _Wife_?" said Brienne and Ser Loras in the same flabbergasted tone.

"You rebuke me already, my sweet?" His teeth flashed toward Brienne but left his stare hard, hoping she would catch on.

"Knights of the Kingsguard can't _marry_ ," said a second Gold Cloak indignantly, gesturing between Jaime and Brienne and Ser Loras.

Jaime shrugged. "This one has. Conditions of my release by Lady Catelyn Stark. We can sort out the details later but for now we have business to attend to."

Loras Tyrell's jaw was slack, the poor confused pup. But his hand had also fallen to his side helplessly.

"Come, my lady," he said to Brienne. Her expression could have been a mirror for Ser Loras'. On impulse, he took her hand in his and gave commands to the gathered Gold Cloaks to provide accommodations for Steelshanks and the rest of their party.

"There were other ways," she said once they were out of earshot. She stopped in the middle of a crowded street and lifted her chin. "I have bested Ser Loras before and I would gladly have done so again."

Jaime laughed and dropped her hand, a little reluctantly. "I have no doubt you could have. But have you also bested an entire unit of Gold Cloaks?"

Her gaze dropped from his face, fixed instead upon something over his shoulder. "You need not have tied yourself to me. I'm not--you're Lord Commander. You still have honor here."

He wanted to make a joke of her naivete, but none came to mind. She'd not smiled since news of Robb and Catelyn Stark's deaths had reached them, anyway, and what good was a jest without an audience?

Jaime still needed to see his sister. Their son was dead, and he suspected he'd find her mourning the little monster in the sept. It had been all he could think of on their journey south. He _needed_ to find her. And yet--

"What plans have you for the day?" he asked as if he did not know the answer.

Brienne's eyes narrowed, incensed. "I don't appreciate your japes, Ser Jaime." She paused, frowning. "Not today."

"You have a queer notion for what passes as a jape. I only meant we should share a meal. Since we're husband and wife now." His grin was crooked and teasing.

"You are an extremely foolish man." He could have sworn he saw the corners of her lips twitch.

"So you've told me, but I’ll ask you keep that particular secret between us."

They continued their walk then and when Jaime glanced over at her, she was already looking at him. She set her jaw and nodded curtly. "I'm not certain your foolishness is a secret, but all the rest are safe with me."

“Foolish enough to wed the likes of you,” he said lightly, and Brienne laughed.


	11. As much noise as you like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime and Brienne argue over what to do with Pod
> 
> For: anon

“He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a _squire_.”

“He’s been through enough.”

“You can’t protect him forever.”

Brienne bit her lip, uncertain of her position for the first time since their argument had begun. “I can protect him for now.”

Jaime’s smile was pitying. “I once thought the same of you.”

“ _I_ am a woman grown. Podrick is a _child_.”

“Children grow up, Brienne. It’s the way of the world.”

“Jaime,” she said steadily, willing her voice to remain calm, “I will not abandon him. Abandonment is all he’s ever known.”

“Gods, woman.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It isn’t abandonment to send your ward to foster. If he should want to return to Casterly Rock, you know there will be room for him. But the lad is three-and-ten and it’s well past time he begins to make a place for himself. A place of his own choosing.”

“He chose me. He chose _us_.” She turned away from him to stare out the tower window where moody gray waves crashed against the Rock far below.

She heard Jaime sigh and cross the room. He did not touch her, just came to stand behind her close enough to feel his heat radiating across her back.

“He’ll come back, Brienne.” His voice had softened. “I don’t think even the Long Night come again could keep the boy from your side. He’s rather devoted to you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Brienne smiled to herself before wheeling around on him with narrowed eyes. “You sound quite jealous.”

Jaime threw his head back and laughed, his hand and stump going to her hips to draw her in closer. “I do, don’t I?”

Brienne nestled her head into the crook of Jaime’s shoulder while his thumb rubbed soothing circles across her waist.

“I know you still feel you need to protect him, my lady,” he murmured into her hair. “The world is not what it once was. There are no hangmen, no walking dead or ice spiders. It’s only marriage and knighthood and pleasing his guardians that Pod needs to worry himself with now.”

“He doesn’t have to please me,” she argued into his neck. “Or you.”

“Aye, but he will.” He leaned away from her and gave her a lopsided grin. “I squired at Crakehall and I turned out fine.”

“You most certainly did _not_.” She sighed. “I’m not prepared for the Rock to be so empty.”

“We can fix that,” he said against the shell of her ear. “We can fix that _much more loudly_ without your squire trying to sleep in the next room.” She gave him a playful shove, but he kept on. “So really, Brienne, we all stand to win.”

“Fine,” she acquiesced, though she had known sending the boy to foster was the right thing to do all along. Jaime’s breath hot against her skin had a way of making her see reason. “He _is_ out in the courtyard, if you wanted to practice making as much noise as you like.”

Jaime nipped her ear in response. “You see? Everyone wins.”


	12. Fuck this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Brienne clenched her jaw. "Fuck this."
> 
> For: [weboury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weboury)

Brienne clenched her jaw. "Fuck this."

She turned on her heel and marched back across the hall to where she had left Jaime standing, an annoyingly desperate look on his face. They'd been fighting the dead for far too long, supplies were low, and she knew now. She _knew_ \--

"Brienne," he said as she stalked toward him, his eyebrows raised in surprised confusion. "Did you forget--"

But she grabbed him by the lapel, pulled him into her and bored her eyes into his. "You _craven_ ," she accused.

"Craven?" Jaime lifted his hand to her arm to push her away, anger flashing across his face. But Brienne held fast.

Her fingers trembled but she pulled him closer still and then … she kissed him. Jaime's lips were a comforting relief against her own, like the silky embrace of warmed sheets after hours in the cold. She had known this was what he wanted, had finally recognized her own desire reflected back in his eyes when she'd turned to leave him after dinner. But still he had not reached out.

She didn't know what she was doing, and Jaime was at first stiff with surprise before giving himself over to her. His hand on her arm slid up and grasped the nape of her neck, fingers entangling in her hair. His beard scratched her skin more than she had imagined it would, but it was a pleasant sort of scrape. She was alive and so was he, the sensation seemed to remind her.

People were pausing in the Great Hall; she could hear the surprised pause of footsteps, but in that moment Brienne did not care. One hand grasped Jaime's wrist, just above the golden hand, her thumb finding his rapidly beating pulse. Her other bravely cupped his cheek. Jaime's tongue at once swept across her lip, questioning. Answering him with parting of her lips seemed the most natural thing in the world. They had sparred together so often, had fought back to back. Brienne's body knew Jaime's, and his own knew hers.

 _Alive._

It was her only thought, like a drumbeat. A celebration and a prayer both.

_Alive, alive, alive!_

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, tongues teasing and slipping across one another. He returned her kiss with valiant determination until heat pooled in Brienne's belly, until her knees wanted to go weak but she willed them to support her. Each new press of his lips, each caress of his tongue against her own seemed to breathe new fire into her where before there had only been ice and cold.

Both too soon and after far too long, Jaime pulled away. His eyes were pools of black with only the slightest sliver of green ringing them. His heartbeat against her thumb never slowed.

"Should we--move this elsewhere?"

Brienne shook her head as she tried to steady her breathing. "I'm needed." 

Reluctantly, she dropped her hand from his cheek and took a step away from him. His hand at her neck only moved down to her shoulder, unwilling to let her go.

As she turned to leave, Jaime's grasp tightened. "Brienne, _wait_." She let him search her eyes. "Why? Why now?"

She smiled sadly, could at last feel a blush creep up her neck. "I wanted to know. If we're to die, I just--wanted to know."

Jaime returned her smile and tilted her chin down toward him with his thumb. "We cannot die. Not now. You've given me too much to live for."

Brienne covered his hand with her own, just briefly, as they shared a private smile in a crowded hall. The Brienne of a year ago, blushing and complimenting his white cape in the White Sword Tower, would hardly recognize this Brienne now.

"I'll see you on the wall?"

Jaime grinned. "I wouldn't miss it."


	13. Hold him pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: after Jaime dies in the Long Night, Brienne tells their child that their father was a good man. A followup to [chapter 6: Hold him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252638/chapters/64111642).
> 
> For: [wildlingoftarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlingoftarth/pseuds/wildlingoftarth)

Brienne had searched high and low for little Galladon for the better part of the morning. He hadn’t been in the nursery or his typical haunts. The library and the courtyard were both empty. Lately he had taken to sneaking away to the kitchens to steal tarts and pies, but the cooks had not seen him either. It wasn’t unusual for her son to slip off, but they were set to sail to King’s Landing on the morrow to visit the boy’s uncle, and there was still much to be done.

Brienne stood on the sprawling marble staircase leading up to the front entrance of Evenfall Hall, her hands on her hips as she looked out across the sea. There was one likely place she had not looked.

The godswood on Tarth was not within the walls of Evenfall and was not much used. Perhaps it once had been, but the Islanders of the present day seemed to draw their spirituality and tranquility from the sea. The path leading towards it was not well-traveled, just a narrow line of sandy earth twisting down the side of the hill and out toward the shore. But instead of leading to the sea, it sloped down toward a wild, somewhat overgrown old garden with a short, round, white tree in the center and sweet-smelling pines all along the perimeter. Before the singular weirwood tree, a bench was occupied by a small boy with a mop of golden, wavy hair. Brienne smiled with relief and rushed past the stone garden wall to sit beside her son.

“Oh,” Galladon said, looking away from where he’d been staring at the weirwood’s gaping red face. “You found me.”

Brienne put her arm around Galladon’s shoulder. “What are you doing down here by yourself, silly boy?”

Galladon was silent but he pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin atop them. Summer was ending and autumn was in the air. Her boy has scarcely ever known a chill, and he shivered when the wind blew through the trees of the godswood. His cheeks were wet and his eyes were red and puffy, but he kept his silence.

Brienne wouldn’t try to force his thoughts out of him. She had never wanted to be that sort of parent, and it was fortunate that most of the time her resolution to give him time and space was moot: typically, Galladon chattered like a cat in a window.

After several minutes had passed by, Galladon said on a shaky breath, “They said Father was an oathbreaker.” Gal didn’t look at her as he spoke. He kept his gaze locked on the tree in front of them.

Brienne wanted to ask who “they” were, but part of her also did not want to know. She only hoped it was no one she cared about that would fill her child’s head with such nonsense.

“What do you think, Gal?” she asked instead, squeezing his little arm.

Galladon shrugged dejectedly. He was only eight years old and a true summer child, but Brienne had long known that there were truths he would one day have to face. She hadn’t counted on how much it would hurt her to watch him struggle with it.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I know he was good. You and Uncle Tyrion always told me he was good.”

Brienne pulled him into her lap then. He was big for his age, but not too big for her. “What does an oath mean, do you think?”

“It’s like a promise, right? A promise you can’t break.” He burrowed his head into her chest with a sniffle and Brienne stroked one of his little arms with her much larger hand.

“It is a promise, yes. A very serious promise.” She hesitated. These were murky waters and he was so _young_. “If someone made you promise to do something very bad, something very wrong, would you still do it?”

“I wouldn’t ever promise to do anything _bad_ , Mother,” he protested.

“I know you wouldn’t, love. But if you did--if someone tricked you into making a terrible promise, do you think it would be bad to break that promise?”

Galladon looked up at her then. His little freckled face was scrunched up as he considered the new information he had been presented with. Eventually he shook his head “no” and Brienne smiled.

"Do you remember the Mad King, Aerys the Second, from your lessons." Gal nodded so Brienne pressed on, her stomach in knots. "Gal--he was a bad man. Everyone knew he was a bad man. He hurt people. Killed people. Innocent people and good people. You know you're father was a member of the Kingsguard--"

"The youngest ever!" he whispered reverently.

"The youngest ever," she conceded, squeezing him a little tighter and trying not to think overmuch about Jaime having only been a few years older than their son was now when he made his vows. "King Aerys was bad, but your father had sworn to protect him. It was once considered a great honor to spend your life protecting the king. Your father didn't know then how bad he was. What do you think he should have done?"

"Quit," Galladon said with a shrug of his shoulder.

Brienne chuckled even as her heart ached and tears stung at her eyes. "He didn't quit though. Instead, he stopped the Mad King. Your father killed him, breaking his oath to protect the king. He had no other choice. The king wanted to do terrible things and only your father was there to stop him. So he did."

Gal fell silent again. He just breathed in time with Brienne, his head on shoulder. "So it isn't bad to be an oathbreaker?"

"Oh no. No, I didn't say that! But choosing to save people is always good, Galladon. Doing the right thing--the thing that you know in here--" she pressed her free hand to his chest, "--is the good thing to do. Always do the right thing. That will serve you well."

Galladon nodded again and after a while, Brienne added, "can you promise me something, Gal? Can you promise to tell me, to tell someone you trust, before you ever make any oaths or vows of your own? Sometimes--" she closed her eyes as Renly's smiling face swam into view, quickly replaced by Lady Catelyn's kind smile, "--sometimes we swear our lives away for people we love and at the time it seems like a good thing to do, because we love them. But we don't realize what we're getting ourselves into."

"Okay, Mother," Gal sighed. Then, "Father died protecting you and me. He was a Hero of the Long Night. And he saved people from the Mad King."

Brienne waited for him to continue, but when he didn't she said gently, "he was a man, Galladon. He made good decisions and bad decisions. His best decisions saved thousands and thousands of lives. Some men remember him as an oathbreaker, and he was, while most others remember him as just and brave. But it's important you know that he wasn't perfect. He was a man with flaws the same as anyone else."

Galladon chewed on this, too. "But he was good."

"Yes, love." She held their child close, her cheek pressed against curls that had been Jaime's. "Yes, he was good."


	14. The Commander and the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: colleagues who get drunk at a work event and end up banging
> 
> For: anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really stretching everything about this prompt. *shrug*

The Hand of the King is staring at her again. The Red Keep is alive with celebration with lords and ladies from all across the realm, courtiers, councilors, tradesmen, and even some smallfolk who had won the king's friendship. A throng of people to choose from, and yet the most handsome man in Westeros has eyes only for Brienne of Tarth.

Brienne is supposed to be in conversation with Lady Sansa and some others, but she cannot take her eyes from Jaime Lannister, who seems to be in a similar predicament where he stands in a circle including the king himself. He's had too much to drink, she can tell by the rosy tint high in his cheeks and his careless grin. But she is not one to judge. It's the annual celebration of the end of the Long Night, the one evening of the year Brienne will allow herself to indulge a little. She takes a sip from the goblet in her hand and as she does, Jaime does too.

Someone in the group he's in says something funny--or something meant to be funny, because everyone laughs. Everyone but Jaime, who rolls his eyes and grins at her. Brienne smiles a little in return, ducking her head slightly and pushing her hair behind her ear. All these years she's known him and he still has a way of making her feel like a blushing maid.

"What do you think, Lord Commander?"

Brienne's eyelashes flutter as she turns her head toward the conversation and she does actually blush when she realizes she's heard none of it.

"Pardon?"

It's Lord Edmure speaking, blue eyes fixed on her and ready for her opinion on something Brienne probably cares about not at all. His niece is at his side, doing a terrible job of suppressing a grin and absolutely refusing to look directly at Brienne.

"King Jon's new tax policy. What do you think?"

Brienne's head is buzzing pleasantly and she's certain that entertaining this particular conversation is likely to destroy the sweet feeling. She opens her mouth to respond anyway, as is polite, but she’s quickly cut off.

"She loathes it."

Where most mortal people slur their words unattractively once in their cups, Jaime Lannister's voice seems to become silkier. More attractive. Brienne finds it maddening in the extreme. Another of his perfections to contrast her own flaws; all Brienne gets from drink is a propensity for giggling and blotchy red cheeks.

Edmure quirks an auburn eyebrow and Sansa is smirking. Jaime rests his hand on the small of Brienne’s back and the contact is so warm and welcome that it seems to course through her hotter than the Arbor Gold.

"I helped write it, you know," Edmure says with a frown. He's looking Jaime up and down with uninhibited distaste.

“She knows,” Jaime quips merrily. He turns his attention back to Brienne and though she should certainly be annoyed at his intrusion, she’s smiling. _The damned wine_. “Lord Commander, a word?”

Brienne makes her apologies to the group--Sansa is still grinning as she looks between the pair of them.

“Brienne,” Jaime whispers once he’s pulled her behind a large statue of a direwolf. “I believe I may be a bit drunk.” There’s rare, youthful laughter in his eyes as he looks up at her. He’s been _looking_ at her all night. She had found it difficult enough to mingle even without Jaime’s interference. Pleasantries and idle conversations had never been Brienne’s specialty.

She hums at his confession. “I believe I _must_ be, to let you talk to Lord Tully that way…”

“I don’t want to talk about Tully.” He’s biting his lip now, the sparkle in his eye turned predatory.

“I don’t either,” she admits.

Jaime steps closer, pulling her into him. “Come, wife. We’ve shown our faces enough for decency and the rest of your Kingsguard is on the prowl. Let’s make good use of the night.”

Brienne _does_ giggle then. She takes his hand, both of them tipsy and content. With a laugh, the Hand and the Commander make their way back toward their shared chamber.


	15. In dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: hurt/comfort with confessions
> 
> For: tuliptoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be a coherent narrative.
> 
> Apologies in advance.

Brienne was surely dreaming again.

In her dream she had ridden south to Pennytree to find Jaime Lannister and convinced him to follow her.

In reality, Ser Jaime would never leave his host for Brienne of Tarth. That had been the first clue that she was dreaming.

In the next part of her dream, Brienne fell from her saddle, sick with fever and sleeplessness.

That part _might_ have been real.

Perhaps that's where she was now, drifting in a comforting dream after falling from her mount. There was no other reason she would think he might be holding her head pillowed in his lap, his hand in her hair.

"Be stubborn, Brienne," his voice said, disembodied and floating all around her.

Definitely a dream.

Again.

No different from any of the other dreams she'd had since the Brotherhood had captured her.

"Jaime," she said in response to the voice that was definitely not real. Perhaps she said it aloud or perhaps only in her head. She couldn't be sure. She wasn't even sure of where she was at.

Perhaps she was dead, and the gods have chosen to let her imagine Jaime's fingers--combing through her hair, scratching pleasantly at her scalp--for the rest of time. It wasn't such a bad fate, really.

So she's dead or she's dreaming. Because in no waking reality would he utter a sob that sounds like her name.

"I'm here. Brienne, I'm here," he said, whatever figment this Jaime was. "Gods, I should never have sent you alone. But you fought a _bear_ with a _tourney sword_. You bit off Vargo Hoat's ear…"

That she didn't understand. Even when he was not real, Jaime spoke in riddles sure couldn't understand.

The bear? Vargo Hoat?

The real Jaime would never blame himself. She could only blame herself for failing him, and she knew he would too.

How could he not?

"Jaime," she tried again, the only word she could think of. She thought she sounded stronger this time, whatever that meant.

"Wake up," he said, his voice like warm furs all around her. "By the gods, wench, if you let a little fall from that thrice-damned horse take you from me--"

He stopped short, as though he had said something he had not meant to say. It was all very odd, for someone who did not exist.

But he made a compelling argument.

Perhaps she should wake up.

If she was dead, she was dead. If she was alive, she was probably still with the Brotherhood and would be dead soon anyway. What was there to lose?

Brienne opened her eyes.

And there was Jaime, staring down at her with tired eyes. His hand _was_ in her hair, though it stilled when he caught sight of her blinking up at him.

She was in his lap, she realized. A fire crackled around them and she could see their horses tied to a tree just over Jaime's shoulder.

It was no dream.

"Hello," she said thickly, her throat raw.

Jaime threw back his head and laughed. Brienne wasn't sure what was funny, but when he looked back down at her, tears swam in his eyes.

"Hello, wench."


	16. Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime discovers Brienne's freckles
> 
> For: waxedpaperdoor

“Gods,” Jaime whispered, trailing a finger across Brienne’s clavicle, between her breasts, and down to her navel. “They _do_ just go all the way down.”

Brienne had expected to have to fight the urge to want to cover herself, but in Jaime’s presence, all of her carefully constructed walls seemed to come down. She was not above blushing, however. “For as long as I can remember,” she responded just as quietly, shifting her weight on the bed.

Jaime chuckled. “That was very nearly a joke, Brienne.” He pressed a light, ticklish kiss to her navel and she shivered. “It isn’t any wonder the entire realm thinks me a bad influence on you. Another fortnight in your presence and I fear you’ll have taken up a jester’s cap.”

“You are _not_ funny,” she said with as serious a face as she could manage under the circumstances.

Jaime responded by running the tip of his tongue along her pelvic bone, just above the seam of her smallclothes. Brienne’s hand instinctively went to his hair, wrapping the curls around her fingers and tugging.

He made a noise like a grunt, and Brienne immediately worried she’d hurt him. But when she apologized, he only laughed again.

“You only have the continued existence of these smallclothes to apologize for, my lady.” She stared down at him where his chin was pillowed on her belly and a grin played on his lips.

“If that was meant to be a joke--”

“From me? Perish the thought.”

He slid up until he was sitting back on his knees. He was almost too much like this, shining like the sun even in the darkness of the Long Night. Brienne sometimes even felt that she should shield her eyes lest his visage destroy her vision. Jaime had been naked from the waist up around Brienne before, but never had she felt so bold as to want to join him.

On impulse, she leaned forward and captured his lips with her own. Jaime hummed a pleased little sound in the back of his throat and brought the weight of his body down to rest against her. As they kissed, his hand dipped below the waistband of her smallclothes, running his fingers through Brienne’s tuft of curls but going no further.

After a while Jaime broke away, his eyes dark as night and a mischievous smile on his wet, reddened lips. “I’m sorry, my lady. But I simply cannot continue until I’ve charted the rest of these freckles.” With that he kissed his way back down her body, paying special attention to the areas he knew were her most sensitive. Brienne thought that if this is what it meant for Jaime to chart her freckles, she hoped he’d never find them all.


	17. Married. (pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: a sequel to the canon divergence about Jaime telling everyone Brienne is his wife: Cersei learns what Jaime has done
> 
> For: [catherineflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but I hope it's still within the same spirit!

Jaime closes the door to Brienne's chamber as quietly as he can, most of his anger from the day's events melting away as soon as he's across the threshold. They had had a decent meal together. He had managed not to offend her and she had managed not to sever his last scrap of patience. But then the rest of the day had taken place.

"How did it go?" Brienne's voice says, a little timidly, from across the room. Her bashfulness aggravates him enough to at least spark a little irritation back into him.

"As well as you might expect," he says flatly, crossing the room and collapsing onto a chair opposite the bed she's sitting on.

The only sound in the room is the cracking of a fire Brienne has doubtless started herself. It could be pleasant if the whole ordeal weren't terribly alien.

"What did she say?"

_ Oh _ . So she isn't referring to her request that he have their farcical marriage publicly annulled. He'd laughed in her face for that but then gone and done it anyway. (The septon had in turn laughed in Jaime's face and told him to come back with this alleged maiden he'd married against his will. Jaime had wanted to sock the man just for that, but he'd refrained. It had been one of his finest moments.)

Jaime huffs another laugh now, avoiding Brienne's eye. "She called me a fool and told me I'd  _ changed _ ."

"Well. You have."

Jaime glowers at her. He knows that. Of course he knows that. But he doesn't need Brienne of Tarth or any-gods-damned-body telling him about it. Cersei had made her revulsion to his appearance clear enough. Maybe if he hadn't touched her with his stump, or if he hadn't shown up without a shave--

"I asked her to marry me."

Brienne snorts and Jaime's irritation with her continues to rise. "Isn't one ill-conceived marriage enough for one man?"

"I didn't haul you from a bear pit just for you to suddenly grow a sense of humor and use it against me."

"What did she say?"

"No."

Instead of continuing to argue with him, Brienne turns her head towards her lap where she fidgets distractedly. "What else, Jaime?"

"It doesn't matter."

And it doesn't, he realizes only after he's said the words. It truly doesn't. Cersei had known just enough about Brienne to know exactly the wrong things to say to Jaime about her. But Cersei had been wrong before. She'd been cruel before. Her reaction was not something he particularly wanted to dwell on.

"You didn't have to do that," Brienne is saying.

Jaime startles, dwelling as he had been on Cersei's reaction whether he intended to or not. "I didn't have to do what?"

"Pull me from the bear pit. Pretend to be married to me."

"None of it was of any personal cost to me," he scoffs.

Brienne tilts her head at him and he thinks she looks like some great sheepdog when she does.

"Your sister won't marry you," she points out very seriously.

Jaime has to laugh at that, the way it sounds coming out of someone else's mouth, and after a moment, Brienne is smiling too. It feels a lot like the brief moment they had shared in the alley when he had taken Brienne's hand, before he'd fully realized what his return would have in store for him.

Inexplicably, he wants to take her hand again.


	18. Hum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hum
> 
> For: wildlingoftarth

Jaime’s head snapped up from where he’d been poring over scrolls upon scrolls of levy assessments. It was dull work to begin with, but coupled with a humid summer day and Jaime wasn’t difficult to distract.

“Did you say something?” He knew she hadn’t.

Brienne glanced up from her needlework by the window with a quizzical eyebrow. She’d begun privately practicing her stitching after the war was done. Jaime had flatly told her that he did not expect her to knit the next great Lannister tapestry as other women in his family had, but Brienne had only smiled and told him that she would if she wanted to.

“No. Not a word.”

Jaime pursed his lips to keep from grinning and stood from his chair, arms crossed as he swung one foot lazily in front of the other towards her.

Brienne smiled up at him from where she sat in the window seat of the library they shared in the evenings. “Go away. I’m very busy.”

“You were humming.” He knelt down in front of her, placing his hand on top of hers and gently guiding the hand holding the needle into her lap.

Brienne’s cheeks pinkened. “You must be hearing things in your old age,” she teased, letting him rest his chin on her knee.

“What were you humming, Brienne?” His fingertips traced the inseam of her breeches.

Brienne swatted at his hand but Jaime caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. She groaned, and if he didn’t know her better he might have thought she was truly annoyed with him.

“Were you humming _‘Six Maids in a Pool_ ,’ Brienne?”

She opened her mouth to respond but Jaime rocked forward on the balls of his feet and captured her lips with is own. For all her contrived aggravation, she slid her hand across his jaw and returned his kiss without reservation. Before either of them could think, Brienne had pulled Jaime on top of her in the reading nook, needlework abandoned as she ran a hand under his tunic.

"Oh no, no," Jaime growled, nudging the soft spot beneath her ear with the tip of his nose. "I'm not so easily distracted. Tell me the song you were humming."

Brienne rolled her eyes. "'Six Maids in a Pool,' but only because you planted the song in my head."

Jaime grinned triumphantly and bent down to kiss her as he worked at the laces of her breeches. "But you--" _kiss_ , "loathe--" _kiss_ , "that song."

Brienne pushed him away to search his face with laughing blue eyes. "Only when _you_ are singing it."

Jaime sucked in a sharp breath of faux shock and outrage. "All these years I thought you loved my dulcet tones." He had never actually thought so at any point in their acquaintance. "Oh, you'll pay for this." He pressed her more firmly into the bench and she giggled against his ear.

As Jaime slowly divested his wife of her clothes, he sang as loudly as he could while Brienne laughed and attempted to cover his mouth with her hand. But when he was done and he leaned in to kiss her again, the only song on either of their lips was "I love you."


	19. Wrong door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: knocking on the wrong door
> 
> For: [luthien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien)

Brienne had lived her entire life surrounded by other men. One or two had been kind. She had met the Caron boy only once, but he hadn’t seemed to mind that she was of a height with him already or that her teeth protruded even at seven years old. Renly, too, had treated her with respect. But the Caron boy had died, and little more than a decade later, so had Renly. Apart from them, Brienne had learned gradually that men could not be trusted. She slept with one eye open, assumed the worst and was usually right.

But burrowed under layers of reindeer pelts while the wind blew snow against the tiny glass window of her chambers, Brienne had never felt safer. She shared a pillow with Jaime, her nose pressed into the musky crook of his neck. Their legs were entangled and he drew lines up and down her forearm with one of his fingers. She could drift off to sleep, or they could stay awake all night; it made no difference to Brienne.

It was easy to be vulnerable with him. He called her his protector to anyone who would listen. Brienne would only blush and smile sheepishly, but the truth was that Jaime was her protector as much as she was his. The Caron boy and Renly had been decent, but it was only ever with Jaime that she felt at home.

“Where are you right now, Brienne?” Jaime said once conversation had lulled for a long stretch.

“I’m here.” Her usual answer. He always seemed to worry that she’d retreated inside of herself when she’d been silent for too long. She hadn’t yet found the right words to tell him that hunkering down within his own mind was _his_ way of forgetting the world outside, not hers. Nevertheless, she treasured his concern.

She felt him press a kiss to the side of her head and craned her neck upward to smile at him. Brienne often wished of late that she could somehow capture these moments between them to keep forever. The flakes of gold in Jaime’s eyes turned molten in the firelight, the stretch of the little scar across his brow that she had given him so long ago, the soft warmth of his smile… She closed her eyes under his gaze and tried to permanently brand the image into her memory.

Then came a knock upon the door.

Jaime’s eyes didn’t leave hers, but his smile dipped toward a frown. Brienne turned her head.

“Don’t answer that,” he said with a squeeze of her shoulder.

“It’s likely Pod. I told him to come to my room if he became afraid in the night. Who else would be out at this hour?”

Jaime sighed and released her. “You stay put. I’ll let him in.”

“Aren’t you worried someone might see--?”

But Jaime was already pulling on his breeches and on his way to the door. He clearly was not worried someone might discover their secret romance, opening her door half-dressed well past nightfall.

“Oh,” she heard him say. “Your Grace. You’re--not the squire I thought you’d be.”

_Your Grace?_

Brienne sat up bolt upright, pulling the furs up to her chin. In the corridor just over Jaime’s shoulder stood Daenerys Targaryen.

“You’re not Lord Tyrion.”

“I--no. Not.”

It had become almost endearing to Brienne how flummoxed Jaime became around the young queen. Especially considering he’d only narrowly dodged a brief sentence spent in front of her dragons when first they had met. But the pair of them had spoken in private, and since then their relationship had completely flipped. All Jaime had been willing to say to Brienne was that he had known Queen Rhaella, and no one had ever spoken to Daenerys of her mother before.

“I had come to ask after you anyway. May I come in?”

Jaime tossed Brienne an apologetic look over his shoulder. “These are not my quarters either, I’m afraid.”

It was Daenerys’ turn to express surprise. She ducked her head beneath Jaime’s arm to peer past the doorway. When she caught sight of Brienne, she straightened slowly and at first, her expression was blank.

“Don’t worry your pretty head with our poor manners, Your Grace. Nothing unchaste is going on here. We simply prefer the--the safety of being together.” Jaime dropped his arm and allowed Daenerys full view of the room.

“You’re well and good, Lady Brienne?” she asked of Brienne, who was certain she had turned beet-red from the roots of her hair to the base of her spine and beyond.

 _The safety of being together_. The words had such a lovely ring to them coming from Jaime’s mouth.

“I have no complaints, Your Grace.” She hesitated, nipping at the corner of her lower lip.

The dragon queen was smirking knowingly, but she only appraised Jaime from head to toe and made no further comments on the situation. “I trust that you will treat her well. Enjoy your evening.”

When Daenerys had gone again, Jaime returned to scoop Brienne back into his arms. “Do you think Podrick will sleep through the night?”

“He _has_ gotten better. There’s a chance.”

“Good, because I’m not leaving this bed again.”

Brienne chuckled lightly and Jaime held more tightly onto her, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning his head on her shoulder.

“She aims to make you Hand. That’s what she meant to talk to Tyrion about.”

“I know, Tyrion’s told me. Absurd woman.”

“I think you should do it.”

Jaime laughed. Properly laughed, throwing his head back and chest shaking against her.

“I’m serious, Jaime.”

“I know you are, wench. You’ve always had more faith in me than I deserve.”

Brienne frowned and ran her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp as she knew he liked. She waited for the day he would purr like a kitten beneath her hands.

She couldn’t find the words for him yet. But if she could, she’d tell him how she’d never felt safer than she felt with him; how selfish she would feel for the rest of her days if she let him direct all of his devotion and loyalty to her. Jaime had belonged to the realm before he’d ever been Brienne’s. If she could find the words, she’d tell him that she loved him, and eventually, with his compassion and his astute observations, the rest of Westeros would too.


	20. The Red Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Brienne and Jaime at the Red Wedding
> 
> for: anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual Red Wedding is not depicted. No violence is explicitly mentioned herein. This is really just a hurt/comfort ficlet.

"Brienne!"

The crowd was pushing out People were screaming. A cart by the entrance to the castle had suddenly gone up in flames. A group of men dressed in chainmail with the sigil of the Twins rushed past, swords drawn and chasing down a pair of young men in evening wear. He and Brienne had not even gone inside, had been left in the care of guards that had quickly abandoned their post, but the sight outside is still ghastly. Jaime knew already that the sounds that had come from the castle would haunt his dreams.

He caught sight of a blonde head moving toward the entrance and pushed his way past. If Jaime had _known_ this was what that slimy louse Roose Bolton had had in store for the wedding he’d dragged them to--

“Stop.” He placed a firm hand on her shoulder as people rushed past. Next to them, a group of people were trying to contain the fire in the cart before it jumped to the castle.

“Let me _go_!” she hissed, shrugging away from him.

And he did, against his better judgement, but she just stood there in front of him, her broad back heaving with each breath as though she were trying to regulate them. She turned slowly to face him, her lips parted in shock and blue eyes watery. Someone brushed past as they ran away from the castle and she swayed on the spot at the contact, like a great tree poised to fall in the middle of a brutal storm. This wasn’t the Maid of Tarth he knew. This was a helpless, defeated creature that Jaime could not begin to fathom how to handle. They stared at one another until a tear escaped her brimming eyes

“You can’t save her,” he said finally, just loud enough for only her to hear.

She moved her mouth like she meant to respond, but no sound came out. She only shook her head. Jaime was at least glad they had been left outside. From the sounds of the screams inside and the blood on the hands and armor of the people running out, there was not a chance that the Starks and Tullys within were still alive. She’d been so hopeful on the journey--they were returning them to her liege lady and the self-styled King in the North. Jaime had half-expected Stark would kill him on sight, and he knew he should be glad that his captor was likely dead and would now never have the chance, but looking at Brienne…

He wondered what Cersei would want if someone she loved as much as Brienne loved Catelyn should suddenly die so horrifically. Jaime tried to think what he would say to her, if their roles were reversed. But nothing he imagined made sense; he wasn’t certain there was anyone his sister cared for the way the Brienne of Tarth so plainly loved Catelyn Stark.

Jaime huffed as Brienne seemed to stare at something just beyond his shoulder.

 _This is absurd_ , he thought before stepping forward and putting a stiff arm around one of Brienne’s shoulders, drawing her toward him. She shuffled awkwardly and then stood straight as a silver birch tree. There was a commotion somewhere nearby, some laughter that felt so out of place even to Jaime’s ears that it made his phantom fingers twitch with anger. He pulled Brienne’s head closer into him. She’d likely try to stalk off to fight them again if she saw.

But then they were just standing there in the midst of the chaos and Jaime had not planned what to do next. They both wore grimy old Lannister cloaks at the insistence of Roose Bolton and he suspected that was the only reason they had not been slain yet themselves. But Jaime was under no delusion that fatal blows could come for both of them at any moment.

“We should move,” he said in the direction of her ear.

Instead of answering, Brienne hiccuped out a sob and he felt one of her hands fisting into his tunic.She was collapsing into him, all of her weight pressed against his chest. There was surely nothing else he could do but wrap his arms securely around her, holding her upright while she cried. He’d held Cersei so many times, but never had he held anyone like this. Brienne was soft and warm in his arms and the way she clung to him made him feel _needed_ in a way that felt … it felt good. He didn’t need a sword hand for this. No one had to die. He could just hold her and that would be enough.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, even as he felt wholly uncertain. Nothing was alright and she couldn’t possibly believe him about it.

Brienne wept on and Jaime found himself rubbing her back before he knew what he was doing. “We should leave this place now if we’re to return the Stark girls to the north.”

Brienne lifted her head from his shoulder. “What do you mean?” Her eyes were as red and puffy as her wet cheeks and her voice was small.

Jaime’s smile was pitying. “We still have an oath to keep, wench.”

She stared at him as though she had never seen him before for longer than was comfortable. There was something vulnerable and sincere in her expression that made Jaime’s stomach squirm and his chest tighten.

“Yes we do.” She pulled away from him, glancing down at his newly empty arms with a frown that suggested she wasn’t sure how she had gotten into them. “I noticed a paddock on the way in. We should find horses before they’ve all been taken.”

Jaime nodded seriously. He had meant what he told her about fulfilling their promise to Catelyn Stark, but all he could think of as they made their way out was how well he had liked having Brienne of Tarth in his arms. He would simply have to think of a lighter reason than mass slaughter to pull her back into them.


	21. Myrcella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Brienne and Myrcella, step-daughter and step-mother relationship
> 
> for: anon

Myrcella spun in a circle, her blue linen dress billowing around her knees and sending a rippling wave through the sea of grass she stood within. In every direction, blue sky and the occasional solitary tree. Down the gently sloping hill, a sandy shore ringed a small green lake. There was no one in sight. Her pulse pounded in her ears and her palms itched. 

"Oh no," she said to herself. "Oh no, no, _no_."

She took a step toward the nearest, largest tree in the meadow, hesitated, and turned back toward the lake. The only sound she could hear above her own beating heart was a distant birdsong and the waves down below. She was frozen in place, one foot in front of the other and her hands balled into tight fists at her side.

Myrcella pivoted to scan in the direction of the Evenfall Hall once again. Someone was walking in her direction and her heart leapt with relief for just a split second before she registered that the person striding towards her was _much_ too tall to be her brother.

"Myrcella," her father's wife called. She wore breeches and shielded her eyes from the sun with one large hand. "Your septa is waiting."

Myrcella kept as still as a post even as her heart threatened to lurch into her throat. At once, tears were in her eyes and she shook her head against them. She was the eldest child; if Tommen went missing on her watch, it would be her fault.

"I--I can't find him."

Myrcella had yet to trust this new woman she had come to live with. She was not yet three and ten, but few adults in her life had ever been around for long. It was difficult to think of this Brienne of Tarth as anything but another potential disappointment; someone who showed temporary interest in her and her brother’s wellbeing for one reason or another only to disappear when they were no longer useful.

"Tommen?" Brienne asked with a knitted brow.

" _Please_ don't be cross! He was only just here. I'll find him, I swear it!" She was spinning in circles again, a hand pressed to her forehead and teeth sinking into her lower lip. This would be it. Tommen was lost, and it was her fault and her stepmother would surely want her gone now--

"Myrcella," Brienne was saying as Myrcella mentally calculated how long it would take to pack all of her belongings. Who else would take her in? Her father had had to fight--actually, really fight--just to convince the new king not to have her and Tommen killed. There was nowhere else for her.

"Myrcella, take a breath." Brienne's hands pressed into her shoulders, forcing Myrcella to stand still and face her. She wasn't a pretty woman as Myrcella's mother had been, but Brienne's eyes were kind, like her father's. Before she had come to live with them, Myrcella had not met very many kind eyes. 

"Deep breaths. In. And out." Brienne demonstrated and after a moment Myrcella followed suit, watching the older woman's face intently.

"I'll not go inside until we find him."

Brienne's smile was faint and sad. She seemed to be deliberating something before she inhaled deeply and sank down to one knee in the grass before Myrcella. "You are a wonderful sister to Tommen. He's very, very fortunate to have someone who cares so much for him. Neither of you has had … an easy path to walk. But you're here now, and your father is very proud of you." Her eyes were wide and locked intently with Myrcella's. " _I'm_ very proud of you."

Myrcella felt her chin wobble against her will. Her mother would never have approved of such an overt display of emotion--but her mother had not often said anything so kind to her, either. Brienne was always saying something kind. It had been several turns of the moon and still Brienne treated Myrcella and Tommen with gentleness and warmth. It had put Myrcella on edge; what did Brienne want, why was she _pretending_? She waited now for Brienne to scold her, to finally show the true self that Myrcella just _knew_ must be lurking in there somewhere. But her broad, scarred face remained patient.

Myrcella felt a twisting in her stomach that felt a lot like shame. Perhaps she had been unfair in keeping her distance from Brienne.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, dropping her chin to her chest to hide the tears that refused to be contained.

Before she could do anything about it, a strong pair of arms wrapped around her and hugged her close. Myrcella couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her; after she’d returned from Dorne with her freshly maimed face, even her mother had barely been able to look upon her. So the hug was entirely too much and there was nothing for it but to let herself cry into Brienne’s shoulder.

When she hiccupped her last sob, Brienne pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her trousers and wiped Myrcella’s tear-streaked face with it. 

“I passed Tommen asleep in the bough of a tree on my way to you,” she said with a conspiratorial smile, “but if you ever have trouble again, I hope you know you can come to me and it will be just between us.”

Myrcella sniffled and laughed a quiet little laugh. She _believed_ her stepmother, she realized. As they made their way toward the castle, collecting a yawning and confused Tommen along the way, Myrcella thought with a smile that perhaps Evenfall could be home to her after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry these went on hiatus. I was a bit under the weather for the last week, but more or less better now. I'm also very behind on responding to comments, but they are all very appreciated!


	22. Jealousy and dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime, Brienne, and Hyle find themselves attending a dance when they're at the Vale trying to find or smuggle Sansa out or something like that. Jaime wants to ensure Brienne dances with him!!! Jealousy and dancing ensues
> 
> For: weboury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves hand at canon*
> 
> Sorry for the huge delay in posting. I was sick for a couple of weeks and completely lost my momentum. I'll get it done. :)

Brienne sat with Lady Sansa on the periphery of the smooth-stoned hall where couples danced as though a war were not raging beyond the Gates of the Moon. She could feel, yet again, Hyle Hunt’s eyes upon her from further down the hall, and as a matter of course, Brienne chose to ignore his imploring stare. Instead she made herself watch the twirl of pretty gowns, the glint of candlelight from shined leather boots.

Sansa had requested her presence at the ball, seeming relieved to find a friend in a sea of conspirators and enemies. So Brienne had donned the best breeches and tunic the Eyrie could outfit her with and she’d stuck to the Stark girl’s side the entire evening. It was not much of a task, but it was at least something to prevent her from spending the entire evening staring at Jaime Lannister.

He was leaning in a doorway wearing a dark expression, not far from where Ser Hyle was seated. Brienne could distract her eyes with watching the dancers, but she couldn’t distract her mind from pondering what events had draped the shadow across Ser Jaime’s face. Nor could she stop the thought that kept creeping up on her of how nice it might be for Jaime to ask to dance with her.

It was a cruelly absurd thought, one she wished would stay away. But like a stray cat wandering to her doorstep time and again looking for a strip of meat, the idea—and with it a sore longing—kept coming back.

“May I have this dance, Lady Stark?”

Brienne blinked and came back to reality. She’d been thinking of Jaime spinning her around the hall. But it was only Ser Harry Hardyng come to claim Sansa’s hand again. He’d been the only man to attempt to do so all evening, and Brienne suspected it was because everyone in attendance knew the Young Falcon intended to claim more than a dance or two from Lady Sansa. The man was of an age with Brienne and one of the handsomest knights she’d ever seen, but something hard behind his smile gave her pause. Still, Sansa accepted his offer and the pair of them disappeared into the crowd.

She watched as Hardyng laughed at something Sansa had said, and Sansa’s returning smile did not meet her eyes. The girl was young, but she was plainly shrewd, at least as clever as her mother had been and probably cleverer still. Brienne could not keep up with whatever game she was playing at with her betrothed. Nevertheless, the pair of them struck quite an attractive couple, and Brienne’s heart hurt for it.

She was engrossed in such a line of thinking when a silhouette fell across the floor beside her once more and when she glanced up, this time it was to find the familiar frame of Hyle Hunt.

“You’ve ignored me all evening, Brienne,” he said with smiling brown eyes. It should have been a relief to see him smiling again after the entire traveling party had spent the journey to the Eyrie in agonizing, grief-stricken silence. But in some small, uncharitable way, Brienne thought she might have preferred that silence to his renewed efforts to win her island.

“Yes,” she agreed crisply, digging her heels into the stone floor.

“Come now,” he persisted. “Wouldn’t you like to take a spin around the room with a Winged Knight?”

Brienne shot him a withering look. Since he’d done well in the melee and earned his spot as one of Robert Arryn’s personal guards, it had been all he talked about. Brienne had yet to feel impressed. She’d had her own special cloak, once, for all the good it had done her.

“I’ve apologized to you even after I had my neck in a noose for your bloody Kingslayer, what more would you ask of me?”

She was on her feet before she had time to think of what she was going to do when she got there, fists clenched at her side. But before she could curse him or hit him or dance with him and step on all of his toes out of spite, a crimson cloak whipped out from behind Ser Hyle and suddenly Jaime was between them.

“I believe the lady has politely declined.”

“ _Ser Jaime_ —”

Her protest fell on deaf ears as Jaime took another step toward Ser Hyle, towering over the shorter man. “Find another partner.”

Hyle scowled. “She has a mouth and a mind of her own, Lannister. I would hear the rejection from my lady, not her pet.”

“You’ve heard her rejection plenty, Hunt. And still—” Jaime sighed dramatically though his eyes remained lethally sharp, “—you choose to pester her. Tell me, what is it about a woman’s wishes that are so difficult for you to accept?”

Brienne opened her mouth to rebut Jaime’s casual accusation, but closed it again when she realized she had no rebuttal for him. Ser Hyle had certainly been less than understanding and she had run out of ways to deter his advances, short of violence. Instead, a warm blush bloomed across her cheeks at the realization that people were beginning to turn and watch with curious eyes. The mere idea that someone like Ser Jaime would come to the defense of someone like Brienne of Tarth must have been laughable to anyone within earshot.

But Jaime was staring Ser Hyle down still, a muscle working in his jaw, and Brienne could see the shorter knight’s confidence deflating with every second that passed.

“What a pair you make,” Hyle spat with a shaky laugh, dragging his eyes scathingly toward Jaime’s false hand before raking them over Brienne’s body. She knew what he meant to say with that look—Kingslayer’s whore, people called her behind her back.

Hyle was already backing away when he drawled, “enjoy of one another what you can!” And then he turned on his heel, the silver cloak of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights billowing around him as he marched away.

Brienne didn’t have time to react before Jaime started to go after him, fury evident in the hard line of his mouth and the clench of his fist. She grabbed him around the bicep before he’d taken a step, pulling him back around toward her.

“It isn’t worth it,” she hissed.

Jaime was scowling at her intensely, as though Brienne herself had uttered Hunt’s words. The shadow across his face was as dark as she’d ever seen it.

“You shouldn’t let him speak to you that way.”

“You shouldn’t presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

Jaime’s nostrils flared but he glanced around them, shifting his angry gaze from Brienne to the bystanders who dared to continue to watch them. He’d made for himself few friends in the time they’d been in the Vale, constantly brooding and glaring as he had been. The climate suited him not and the company even less.

“Are you going to make me ask?” he asked in a clipped whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the musicians and revelers.

“I suspect I could never make you do anything, Ser Jaime.”

His eyes softened some at that, but the rest of his face remained stern and unyielding. “You truly have no idea at all, have you?”

Brienne’s stomach fluttered pleasantly, as though it had suddenly filled with butterflies and birdsong. She hated when he said things like that, when he looked at her like that. They’d been through much together, that much was certain, but since she’d found him at Pennytree, he often treated her with a gentle kindness that Brienne felt ill-equipped to handle.

“I’m afraid—” she paused, unsure what he expected her to say. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask whatever it is you wish to ask.”

Jaime smiled. “Dance with me.”

In one fell swoop, her heart rose up into her throat and then quickly plummeted through the floor. If she had the courage to look down, Brienne was certain she’d see it lying on the floor at Ser Jaime’s feet, still beating only because he was near.

“I don’t need your pity, Ser.”

She thought of Renly; how a gesture of chivalric kindness that a lordling had shown to the daughter of his inferior had as good as swept her away from her home and into a war. She’d thought that was love. How magnificently wrong she’d been, and here the proof of her miscalculation stood before her, one-handed and glorious.

“Pity?” Jaime frowned, the same shadow creeping across his brow. “Brienne, I assure you, I would never request a dance from any lady from a place of pity. I only ever ask for that which I want.”

Something flared in his eyes, a heat that even the Maid of Tarth could not misread but which still seemed impossible to her. She was again at a loss for words, a fish floundering on dry land. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine and Jaime’s eyes widened as he looked up at her.

“You’ve asked no question of me yet.”

He chuckled and the square of his shoulders softened. “My lady, may I have this dance?” His voice was as smooth as fine silk, and with the way he bent slightly at the waist with his golden hand held out toward her, it suddenly became very clear to her that before her was a man who had been raised to court a lady but simply had never cared to.

She sucked in a deep, calming breath. Brienne knew she could be brave when the situation called for it. Set her before a bear, before seven dangerous men, before her own liege lady come back from the grave—these were all things she knew how to face. But Jaime Lannister offering his hand to her, saying such things to her with a smile so warm she wanted to wrap herself up in it—Brienne did not know how to face such a thing. Her body wanted to turn and run, to never look upon his unnervingly kind eyes or soft smiles ever again.

But it was her mouth that reacted. “Yes,” it said for her.

“Gods,” Jaime griped, though his smile was as bright as the sun, all trace of the dark shadows from earlier banished. He took a step toward her, stretching his hand out further for her to take in her own. “I’m not sure what I’d have done with myself if you’d said no to me, too. Wept, most like.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t jesting.” His eyes grew serious again and he glanced down at his outstretched hand, nodding toward it encouragingly. “Shall we show the Vale how to properly move together, my lady?”

Brienne’s cheeks were growing heated again, but she smiled through it anyway, taking Jaime’s outstretched hand with fingers that trembled only slightly. “I should like nothing better, Ser Jaime.”

Moving together with Jaime was revealed to be nothing she should ever have feared. They stepped in time to the musicians as naturally as they had with swords in hand, when the only music in the air had been the song of her blood coursing through her veins. As he spun her around the floor, his eyes staring relentlessly into her own, Brienne could see no pity there.

“You only ask for what you want.”

Jaime’s chest was pressed against her own, his hips moving into hers as they swirled around the other dancing couples, hardly noticing them as they passed.

“Good of you to catch up.”

She ignored him. “You asked for me.”

“Wench, I’ve been asking for you longer than I’ve known _how_ to ask.”

Brienne could only smile, buck teeth on full display without a care who saw. Jaime was the only person in the world as far as she could tell. “The answer’s yes. For you, the answer will always be yes.”


	23. Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Brienne and Jaime dealing with aging, weight gain, old injuries acting up, menopause, arthritis, tuckering out more easily.
> 
> For: anon

She waits for him more often these days, though she pretends that this is not the case. They walk through the sea of golden grass behind Evenfall on the last day of the week, the day set aside for rest and late breakfast and long mornings tangled together beneath cool sheets. Jaime takes his time, wading carefully up the gentle incline toward the overlook. She has stopped to touch her fingertips to the dewy autumn berries of a prickly hawthorn, a small smile on her face.

So dour, his young bride had been. He had once thought she must have been born frowning and had simply never been taught how to arrange her face any other way. Now, years later, he will awake in the mornings and feather kisses along the lines worn into her skin from laughter.

She waits for him now. She admires her gnarled little tree just as she does every other living thing on Tarth, but Jaime knows how his wife protects his pride and his ego even if she would never tell him so.

The overlook is just ahead but by the time he has caught up to her at the hawthorn, his bad hip--the one he'd nearly shattered during the Last War--has begun to throb and stiffen. He'd tried to hide this new disability from her for a short while. There had been no concealing the change to his gait, not from Brienne, who has always seemed to know him better than he knows even himself.

"Rain?" she asks casually, pretending not to notice his panting or the way he leans on his cane a bit more than usual. He watches intently as she wraps long fingers around a handful of haw berries and tugs them free, little bits of red juice streaming between her fingers.

"Seems so." Jaime plays the game with her, staring out toward the sea. The skies are a cool blue without a cloud in sight. But his aching joints know the truth of it.

She draws him near while he is occupied, little more than a squeeze of his waist. They slot together so easily, like the clay pieces of their little grandson's puzzles. Brienne knows where Jaime is weak and he finds where she is strong and together, just like this, Jaime thinks they could weather anything.

She's smiling again, just an ordinary smile for an ordinary day. After he had gotten used to the idea that she _could_ actually smile, he had thought that this smile was for him. It's unguarded and sweet and holds a thousand little promises. But he knows better now. This smile doesn't mean "Jaime." It doesn't even mean "husband." It means family. It means love. He is but a piece of kindling on the roaring fire that is Brienne's love--for their children and grandchildren and the people of Tarth. She loves them all and now, after she has spent so long getting comfortable with loving and being loved, the smile is no longer only Jaime's. He is happy to share.

He reaches his hand up to her face and traces the lines around her mouth, smooths his thumb over the wrinkles around her eyes. "I love these," he says fondly, not for the first time.

In fact, Brienne’s wrinkles are his crowning achievement. Better than any tourney prize or battlefield victory, they are tangible proof that he has kept her alive. More than that, they are proof that he makes her laugh. She has been happy with him, the evidence is written all over her, and he can think of nothing sweeter.

Brienne slips a hawthorn berry into his mouth, her thumb lingering on his bottom lip. He bites at the tip of her thumb first and smiles with his eyes before crushing the tart fruit between his teeth and grinning as she watches him swallow.

Brienne's pupils widen under his gaze and she looks away, behind her where clouds are beginning to congregate along the horizon. "Did you want to finish our walk? We could go back inside, avoid the storm.”

Jaime chuckles and presses a kiss to her jaw, just below her ear. "Trying to coax an old man into your bed, are you?"

"Is this old man too frail? Perhaps he should be tucked in for his afternoon nap instead." She smirks at him, a skill she has only recently mastered. Jaime finds it delightful.

He leans forward until his lips are brushing against her ear. “I’ll show you who’s _frail_ ,” he whispers, digging his fingertips into her hip on the last. Then he slips out of her grasp to take a few steps down the hill and now he is the one waiting for her. She smiles and shakes her head the whole way down.

When she reaches him, Jaime holds his shortened arm out to Brienne and she takes it, linking it with her own. He had once been the more agile of the two of them, as quick on his feet as he is with his tongue. Their pace now is slow and leisurely, stopping and restarting as their bodies need, yet he's sure now that it is everything he hadn't known he'd always wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [pretty--thief](http://pretty--thief.tumblr.com), and I'm always taking prompts!
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from [Cosmic Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EIeUlvHAiM) by Florence + the Machine.


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